"i'll make a deal with you. i'll pierce your heart, sure," he smirks and holds back another cackle "but you must name your first born after me."

"oh my god, no."

"second?"

"no!"

"thi-"

"satoru!" you huff, and he looks down at you with mock offence. "you said anything! how dare you talk to a divine being such as myself so hastily. i have it within my rights to refuse you now, unpleasant girl."

you let out a dissatisfied groan. all the fairytales of the great cupid gojo being a kind and giving soul were definitely all falsities.

"how about i spread your name? every dinner i hold, every ball i host, your name on my tongue to all the important people of this land. how does that sound? good word will do more for you than a banner or my first born."

"hmmm..." he pretends to ponder, then sticks one finger in the air. "okay! you've got yourself a deal. chuck in a tapestry in your master bedroom and i'm sold!"

"i swear to-"

"now, now! no swearing on my good lords name. i will do as you wish, just cross your fingers when you're about to say your vows, and i'll appear right away to seal the deal. yes?"

"yes."

"perfect." he smiles, jumping off the soft grass to hoist himself suspended in the air, flapping his feathered wings.

"i'll be watching!" he calls as he flys into the clouds above, you let go of a breath and tip your head to the sky, hoping and praying to god that this works out.

~

that afternoon you trudge back to your room in the castle, sour from the many fittings for a wedding dress you'd had to endure all day.

as you're about to swing the door open to your room, who other than ryomen is sitting in the centre of your bed.

"and what do you think you're doing here?"

"can i not see my bride to be? i yearn to make us at least friendly before this wedding." he smiles, jumping to his feet and ushering over to you, taking your hand to press a warm kiss to your knuckles.

now, to say you'd never seen him before would be a lie. you'd seen him in portraits sent to your castle from his as a sort of present, and he wasn't bad looking. but, he definitely looked bad looking now that you see him in the flesh. with black ink covering his enter body in tribal patterns, and his dress wear hardly put on correctly, he seemed more like a commoner than a royal prince. he wasn't bad looking, but he was bad looking. hm.. nothing a few classes in etiquette couldn't fix, you supposed.

"i wish to make no such connection with you. i have a plan in mind that doesn't require any of..." you vaguely gesture to his hand holding yours, still. "this."

he sucks in a breath through gritted teeth and lets go of a breathy chuckle.

"they said you'd be hard to swoon, but i'll have you know, i'm quite the gentleman."

he smirks, his strange facial markings bend and move with his skin as his cheeks scrunch up, markings you'd never seen before. he was from a land where people thought marking meant power, and for a man with so many, you'd guess he had quite a lot.

you couldn't say you weren't a little scared of him. after all, he was said to be quite cruel to those who crossed him, earning him the name the king of the cursed.

great choice, dad.

he was bigger than you'd imagined, stronger, too. nevertheless, you naturally wanted to know more about your future husband.

"although i don't think we should bother with formalities, i would like to get to know you better... on a deeper level."

he seems to enjoy that, because he cracks a grin and falls back into your bed. his manners were appalling, but you wouldn't say he was completely un-endearing.

"so would i, princess." he shoves over, then pats a spot next to him on the mattress.

you look from him to his hand, to the spot. sitting on a bed with a man? that's definitely new..

you shook your head and decided that if you were to be reckless, at least it would be with your future man. you slip into the spot, suddenly very aware of his large he is.

"what do you wanna know?" he yawns, leaning back on his arms.

you giggle at the way he was so careless in front of you, and decide that maybe it's time to get rid of the stuck up princess agenda. you mimic him, and hesitantly lean back on your arms as well, (something he finds absolutely adorable).

"i guess i'd just like to know your story, what life was like where you came from." you ask curiosly, "and what's with the markings." you cheekily add.

"oh? we can't be friendly but you'd like to know my life story? cute."

never mind, you were going back to the whole stuck up princess thing.

"why, your attitude is absolutely—"

you're cut off by his finger to your lips, you flush, then quiet down as he starts to answer your questions in full.

he talks for what seems like hours. about his own kingdom, how he grew up, how he got his 'tattoos' (not called markings, apparently.) and you sit and listen, surprisingly. he was an interesting soul with an elaborate story to tell, you were always fond of stories.

he, in turn, lets you talk about your own life. your roles as princess, your favourite maid, your crazy dictator dad.

"he sounds horrible. bet you're glad i'm becoming the new king, huh?"

"i'm not too sure you'll be much better."

"oh shut your— ahem —shoosh."

you muffle a laugh at that, at least he was trying to rid his vulgarity.

you find yourself inching closer to the man as the night grows old, each sentence from his mouth pulls your closer to his being like an ever-pulling magnet.

"cats? what are cats?" you annunciate every letter like a child learning how to speak, and he gawks at you like you'd just killed his, well, cat.

"they're like.... like a cow, but way smaller, and skinnier. and they have a flatter face? sort of more like a rat, really. if you were to smash together a cow and a rat and gave it a skinnier body, then—"

"—you've lost me."

he stops with his mouth wide open, then melts into a smile. "i'll have a cat sent here. just for you, my lady. you must have one... we must have one."

flattering, he'd pay all that money just so you could experience an animal. maybe he wasn't shaping up to be so bad.

"i'd like that."

the dark of night creeps in through the tall windows until the candles are doing most of the work keeping you alight. servants aren't passing by the door anymore and chatter from down the hallway dissipates and draws quiet. not you, nor sukuna remember the dinner you were supposed to attend.

you’re now sitting with your shoulders brushing against one another on the bed, your legs tucked under with skirts creasing and folding beneath you. your crown sits resting on the table, abandoned the second you started settling in properly, and your future king noticed immediately.

“you always ditch it that fast?” he queries.

“mhm, gives me a headache.”

“funny,” he says. “it looks real heavy.”

“it is.”

he seems to lean into you more, and drops his voice a decibel. "when i'm king, i'll have you need not wear it. or, i'll fashion a crown not so hefty."

"what a gentlemen. at this rate, we'll be chummy enough to get married of our own accord."

“now, that wouldn't be so bad, would it?” he smiles.

"suppose not." you reply, nudging his shoulder with your own. he laughs, then pushes you back harder, turning your peaceful chat into a shoving brawl, with each of you taking turns play fighting with one another.

"oi! that hurt!" he squirms as you jab a finger into his chest, and retaliates by grabbing your waist and tickling the sensitive nerves.

"excuse you! that is no place to touch a princess." you halfheartedly scold, and this seems to flip a switch.

he stops tickling, and instead moves to straddle you, pushing you up and trapping you against the head of your bed. you huff a breath in surprise as he so boldly leans down to look you straight in the eye.

"i think you forget a prince holds more weight in the royal hierarchy, my lady. i'd watch your mouth, if i were you."

you're stumped for words, staring at this man as he casually cages you to your own bed, in your own room. the look in his eye is serious, and you're slightly on edge at the potential he had at the moment.

he drops the serious act as soon as he sees that sliver of fear in your expression, bursting out in laughter as he pulls away.

"your reactions are just too good, m' sorry, [name]. i'm just joking around."

you pretend to scoff, turning your head away as to hide the heat radiating from your skin, and he taunts you further.

"gonna have to get used to that, m' afraid. seeing you all embarrassed really does it for me." he chuckles.

god, how could someone be so endearing, yet so annoyingly annoying. you couldn't decide weather or not you liked his constant bipolarness or not.

"i can already tell you're a handful and i've only just met you." you throw at him.

he laughs at that, then lets the silence sit and stew for a while. eventually, your conversation starts back up, and he end up talking some more.

about the food where he’s from, how everything is well spiced and eaten with hands, how his mother used to smack his knuckles when he stole from the pot too early. about the first fight he ever won, the first one he lost, and about the scars he didn’t bother to mark over with tattoos.

you listen to each and every word, becoming more and more interested with each moment he spoke of home.

not once do you interrupt him, roll your eyes. you don’t do the polite nodding thing you were taught, no. you just listen with your chin in your palm and your pretty eyes on him.

“you’re quite a good little listener, aren't you,” he smiles.

“not normally. most other people bore me, is all. it's' a good change.”

that earns you a curious look, then another one of his accomplished smiles.

“good,” he looks from your eyes to your lips. “i’d hate to be like most people.”

hm.

hours pass by, one thing after another. you tell him about sneaking sweets under your mattress as a child, and about the horrible english tutor you made cry a few times. about how you learned to read faster than anyone expected and then hid it because you liked knowing things no one else did in a world where girls were supposed to be illiterate.

that intrigued him. a girl with smarts, that absolutely sucked him in.

now he knew he didn't have to dumb himself down for you like his father had asked him to, in fear of 'scaring the princess off with your need for deeper understanding.' that sounded like a semi-compliment, but nothing from his dad ever was, so he tried his best to stay moderately mid-range.

but now, he was asking you all sorts of weird and wonderful questions. two am hits, and he's just finished listening to you explain why your favourite piece of literature was The Decameron, and not The Romance of the Rose, which you'd justified rather well, he'd admit. maybe you didn't like the same books, but he was definitely fond of your ability to speak your mind and share your own insight, a trait so rare in royal blood of the time.

"i do admire your perspective, although you're wrong all the same."

"uhm. thanks?"

"you're welcome."

when your voice starts to drag out and get all slurred at the ends of your sentences, sukuna has no problem pointing it out.

“you’re tired.”

“i’m fine.”

he shakes his head. “what a little liar.”

you glare at him as he looks as if he's about to stand.

“hey.. stay,” you say, quiet yet firm.

“i wasn’t planning on leaving,” he says just as quietly. "just getting comfortable in my new bed." that last part was cocky, and he shifts until his body is flatter against the bed.

"your new—what?—" you scoff.

but you're shut up real quick when his hand sprawls over your own, intertwining your fingers together like a woven basket. you sigh, but don't pull away from him. you move to lay next to him, your head hitting the soft pillow with about half a meter between the two of you, connected by your interlocked hands.

"good night, [name]."

"good night, ryomen."

you watch as the flickering of candles dance across his cut face, the lines of his tattoos such a perfect contrast in this lighting.

you couldn't possibly sleep, not with a man in your bed, this was all far too foreign. was it normal to feel this hot?

as you're arguing internally on weather or not to close your eyes, one of sukunas opens. “jeez, stop staring and sleep,” he breathily laughs. “i’ll be here for you to oogle tomorrow, y'know. can't exactly disappear.”

you're too flushed to reply, only nodding in response, and squeezing your eyes shut.

now it was his turn to stare.

~

you wake the next morning to find him in the courtyards.

he's got on a new set of strange foreign clothing, his hair's loose, and he's laughing with your guard, toji, like they’d known each other for years. he spots you and straightens up immediately, his expression lightening up like a mask sliding into place.

“morning, princess.”

“you’re still here?”

“that’s usually how the whole 'staying' thing works.”

you huff, but you don’t tell him to go.

he follows you everywhere that day, like a maid would. carrying things when you gesture at them, stepping in when someone annoys you too much about the upcoming wedding prep, and walking at your pace without comment on the way you sort of diddle dally.

not bad, you could get used to this.

by the second day it feels strange when he isn’t immediately nearby you.

where is that man...

you think, strutting about the halls of the castle in a mood at the lack of finance by your side.

just as you're about to round the corner into the grass yards, you're jabbed in the side.

"hey!" you yelp, but you're soon soothed by big arms wrapping around your waist.

"guess who." a deep, raspy voice announces.

"don't you think it's a little early in our acquaintance to be touching me so fondly?" you tut, leaning back into him regardless.

"not at all. in fact, we should touch more." he replies, letting go of your waist but grabbing hold of your wrist; pulling you towards the 'secret garden' you'd shown him yesterday on your stroll.

"and where are you taking me?" you giggle while being dragged. he just shakes his head and pulls you faster, faster, until you're sat on a toppled over log resting atop fluffy grass.

your garden was beautiful. behind a crumbling wall and adorning a central water fountain, the flora and fauna thrived uninterrupted here.

with whistling birds overhead and towering wildflowers blooming from every direction, the sanctuary felt perfectly you. wild and beautiful.

"i admire how well you've kept this place, especially all by yourself without anyone else knowing of it's existence." sukuna chuckles, turning on his heels to take in every angle of the wonderland he'd first seen yesterday.

"hm? you're saying you're surprised i'm competent enough to tend to plants?" you tease, he just clicks his tongue and swivels around to grab a fallen trunk off the floor.

out of his pocket comes a small carving knife, you look at him curiously.

he sits on the grass with a thump, and begins carving at the thick, palm sized piece of wood.

"what are you up to?" you query.

"making my princess a gift. carving is very sentimental where i'm from, my love."

you flush at the name. you'd realised recently that he did that to fluster you, and/or shut you up. either way, it felt nice having someone talk so openly to you without fear of being beheaded by your father if they were to say the wrong thing.

a present, huh? well, it's only fitting you make him something too.

you kneel in a grass patch a few meters away from him, one with daisies spotted in the green. you begin picking, twisting, and tying.

"aw, copying my idea?" he throws over his shoulder at you, winking when you catch his gaze.

"flower crowns are hardly reminiscent of carving." you explain.

this seems to shut him up, because for the next half an hour you two spend the time crafting away, slipping closer and closer until you're sat side by side at the foot of the toppled over log.

once you’ve strung the last flower into place, you look up at the man besides you to find he's already staring, happily. he holds up what he'd been working on, a heart shaped carving with swirls and indentations etched into the surface. such a breathtaking make for a man you only though was all looks and wit.

"for you, my lady." he holds the heart out, waiting eagerly for you to take it.

you smile, and do just that.

you examine each and every orifice of the thing, it was expertly done.

"this is the prettiest thing i've ever seen... you're very talented, ryomen." you compliment, finding the biggest smile plastered across his princely face.

"not quite as pretty as you, love."

okay, you walked into that one.

setting the heart aside, you take one of the daisy crowns from your lap, push a few locks from his face, then rest it softly against his head.

he looks at your hands as you do, fascinated by your gentleness.

"i must say, this one suits me much better than my real one, y'know." he jokes, watching as you remove your crown and replace it with your own flower one.

"i agree. instead of fashioning me a new crown in our future kingdom, we should spend each morning making a daisy one. hm?" you suggest. it was just a throw away comment, really, it was. but the certainty in sukuna's eyes paired with his enthusiastic nod tells you he's planning on doing just that.

"you're a genius." he triumphantly claps, "a hot genius."

"hey, what did i say about being so forward—"

"a hot, sexy, genius!"

~

the next few days follow a similar pattern.

wake up, find sukuna, walk the palace, and bond over anything and everything.

today, five days after meeting, you're speaking of the flowers you'd like at the wedding.

"first i was keen on white roses, but now i think i'd like large daisies... what do you think?" you asked, arm in arm as you both strolled through the front gardens.

"aw, you'd change your mind because of a moment we shared making flower crowns? you sure are cute." he'd tease in his husky voice.

you roll your eyes, nudging him with your elbow, but all he did was pull you in closer by the arm.

"i think that's a wonderful idea. white daisies to commemorate the day we decided to abolish real crowns. quite poetic, i think." he smiles.

"must you always find deeper meaning in everything i say?" you throw back at him, and he lets out a half laugh.

"but of course, i'm nothing if not an over analyser."

"i think the term you're looking for is: paranoia—"

"semantics! anyway." he suddenly stops, pulling a small box from his pocket and turning to face you.

"i've chosen your wedding gift, by the way. i wanted to give it to you on the day, but i'd much prefer if to see you in it now and the days leading up." he announces, chucking you a smirk before pulling you in closer by the waist so you're mere inches apart.

you'd since figured out your future king was physical touches biggest advocate, with his hands wondering all over you whenever he wanted you near.

you blush all the same, your eyes dilating as you peer into his redder ones.

you watch as he opens the small, mysterious box, then let out a gasp at the piece he pulls out.

a necklace made from your preferred rare metal, a delicate heart pendant hanging from the centre that glimmered with gems that refract the rays of sun.

he turns it in his palm, letting you get a closer look. "...so?"

"it's stunning..." you breathe, still in awe at the way it casted diamonds of light across his marked skin.

"i'm glad you like it, since you'll be wearing it until the day you die." he jokes, slinging the clasp open and draping the thin chain over the back of your neck.

"a pretty necklace for an even prettier girl."

you feel the newly fastened gift, pinching it in your fingers and twisting it with care. this felt almost like a peace offering, like this single treasure was the beginning of something a little more than just an arranged marriage.

"i love it, ryomen. but whatever will i get you? i haven't anything prepared."

"give yourself to me and we'll call it even." he winks.

there's that heat in your stomach again...

~

that night, there's no guards stomping past your door, nor is there maids whispering in the hallways. you felt at ease in your quarters.

there's the faint crackle and pop of the fireplace or the occasional owl calling from beyond the open balcony as you’re sat at your vanity, fixing up your hair in slow maneuvers, the thin straps of your silken night gown slipping over your shoulders every time you move.

it’s far shorter than what you’d normally wear, much lighter, too. the fabric's soft against your thighs as you stand to finish the last of your self maintenance.

you catch your reflection in the beautiful wooden vanity and pause. the necklace rests against your chest, the heart pendant glimmering faintly in the candle light, it really was gorgeous.

you're startled when there’s a knock at your door.

you stiffen up for a second, then relax when the knock comes again in a special tune only sukuna had been rapping.

“come in,” you call.

ryomen steps inside, stopping dead in his tracks when his eyes fan over your body. his stare drags from your face down to the cut of your nightgown, then back up again just as quickly.

“i—” he clears his throat with a choppy laugh. “i didn’t realise you were… ah... if you’re uncomfortable, i can leave.”

you sigh, “don’t be ridiculous,” you say, setting your hair brush down. “you’re to be my husband in a matter of days. it hardly matters what i’m wearing.”

his lips twitch upwards into a very small, very cheeky smile.

“hardly matters,” he echoes under his breathe, looking amazed with himself at the vision in front of him.

“are you planning on standing in my doorway all night? it's cold in the hall."

that snaps him out of it, and he shuts the door behind him and walks further into the room, he's a little nervous now, he’s hyper aware of where he’s placing his feet.

"why'd you come, hm?" you question with genuine curiosity, no judgment.

“js' wanted to see you,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. “guess i couldn’t sleep.”

“again?” you tease.

“again.”

you watch him as he approaches your bed, sitting down at the edge of it with a small exhale. he looks less princely and more man tonight.

his eyes flick to your chest, and before you can comment, his hand reaches out, fingertips brushing the heart pendant.

“you’re wearing it,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“..of course i am.”

“even to bed?"

“well, it is important to me.”

you try not to coo at his shy expression. you'd reduced the great ryomen sukuna to a pleased, blushing mess.

“i’m glad,” he says with a cheesy smile.

“lay down,” you offer, nodding to the pillows.

he arches a brow, still grinning like a madman. “bold tonight, aren't we."

“mhm, don’t ruin it for yourself.”

he chuckles and stands long enough to shrug off his coat, then the heavier layers of vests and undercoats beneath. you try not to gawk at his newly exposed biceps as he folds the fabrics over a chair, the short sleeves of his undershirt stretching over his thick arms when he moves. he climbs onto the bed, settling on his back with a loud sigh.

“there,” he says. "m' comfortable.”

hm.. should you capitalise on the opportunity? i mean, he’s been bold all week with the teasing, the arm and hand holding, dragging you into lush gardens and corners of the castle.

maybe it’s your turn.

you climb onto the bed and crawl over to him, the skirt of your gown bunching beneath your knees and riding up your pretty thighs. he watches you the entire time with his red eyes turning dark and curious.

“what're you doing,” he asks gently.

“returning the favour.”

you slide up beside him, pressing your body hot against his side and resting your head just below the crook of his shoulder. your hands spider across his chest until they're resting on his pec.

you'd think he'd gone mute by the way he adorably jitters to a sudden stillness. then, after a minute of adjusting to your heat, he whistles. “well. this is new.”

“don’t look so disdained,” you whine.

“i’m not! i'm not. i’m.. impressed.”

“by what?"

“by you.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t deprive him of this newfound touch.

his arm comes around your back, fingering the silk of your nightgown slowly, then with more conviction when you don’t protest his advances. his fingers thread into your hair, stroking ever so gently along your scalp.

it feels good. you try and fail to suppress a content moan, and he gets choked up at the pretty sound.

“oh wow, did you just—”

“shh.”

he laughs at you quietly and resumes his ministrations.

“comfortable?” he asks.

“mhm.”

“perfect.”

silence settles, but it’s not awkward or anything. your hand taps and scratches against his bulky chest, you're feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palm with a solemn smile.

“ryomen,” you say.

“hm?"

“if we’re married…”

he tilts his head slightly so he can see you better against his shoulder. “when.”

“when,” you correct. “we need to agree on something.”

“urgh, that sounds serious. i'm having a good time right now.” he jokes, although he knows, that you know, that he loves talking seriously with you.

“it is.”

"go on, then." he insists.

“we have to respect one another,” you say. “fully. if one of us wants something, or doesn’t want something, we listen. no forcing each other and absolutely no weird hidden resentment.”

he does a once over of your face for a few seconds before nodding.

“alright,” he says. “that’s fair.”

“and,” you continue, “if this doesn’t work. if we don’t… if we don’t end up loving each other.”

the words feel all twiddled up and strange in your mouth, “we could see other people,” you finish. “quietly, of course. discreetly.. as long as it doesn’t embarrass the crown or my father.”

you regret saying that as soon as it comes out, but you know some ground rules need to be set before anything gets too serious. and if your current feelings were reciprocated, you'd say it was getting pretty serious.

his hand stops brushing your hair entirely.

“you’d be alright with that?” he asks with an unreadable drawl.

“it would be practical. for the both of us.”

“practical,” he repeats.

you cringe but continue. “i don’t want either of us trapped,” you admit. “it's just... i’ve had enough of that.”

...

“if that’s what you wanted,” he says carefully, “i’d entertain it.”

entertain? you're then reminded that he will in fact be king, and you his mere wife. was this all coming from a place of self righteousness? was this inappropriate to be discussing with someone who would soon hold more power than you? you didn't want to dive into that right now, you had to scope his feelings out a little more.

“and you?” you ask cautiously.

“what, if you couldn’t stand me?” he gives a small huff of laughter. “i suppose i’d have to do the same. quietly, though."

the idea of him with someone else rips your heart clean in two. you hate to picture another girl at his side, laughing at his jokes.. wearing a special necklace he bought her.

god, you really don’t like that.

like a moth to a flame you scoot closer to him shyly.

“hmm?” he murmurs.

“nothing.”

he resumes petting your hair and staring off into the roof littered with paintings of intricate star constellations.

“i don’t want that,” he says after a minute.

“want what?"

“other people.”

you look up at him, “you just agreed to it?"

“i agreed because you asked,” he replies. “doesn’t mean i want it.”

oh, wow. okay.

“i don’t either,” you confess quietly.

his thumb brushes along your temple, slow and thoughtful.

“then we won’t need to if that's what fate wants,” he says, and you nod against him.

fate.

you're pummelled in the face with that stupid word, now flashes of cupid sift thought your mind.

satoru.

goodness, you’d nearly forgotten.

cross your fingers when you say your vows, and he’ll appear. he’ll pierce your heart, then seal the deal.

this marriage had to work out, you had the god of love on your side.

but you begin to wonder, did you really need a divine intervention? was this connection so shallow that you'd need a god to help you fall in love with a man you were sure you'd already fallen for?

you glance at the necklace resting between you, at the carved wooden heart sitting on your bedside table that you'd admired every night since he'd given it to you.

maybe it already was working...

maybe you didn’t need divine interference at all.

you smile to yourself, pressing your cheek more firmly against his chest.

“what’s that look for,” he whispers.

“nothing.”

“hm? but you’re smiling so hard.”

“am i not allowed?”

“you are,” he says, voice softer now. “i guess it just means i’ve done something right.”

you tilt your head up enough to meet his eyes.

“you have,” you admit.

he masks the triumphant smile that almost breaks out with a small smirk.

“careful, keep talking like that and i’ll think you’re falling for me.”

you hold his eyes captive as you answer back. “and what if i already have?”

you got him there, he doesn’t have a witty reply.

his hand cups the side of your face instead, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

“then, good,” he mutters quietly.

you close your eyes listening to the badump badump rhythm of his heart beneath your ear, feeling the warmth of him surrounding all of you.

gojo’s arrow will only make this connection stronger, you tell yourself.

it will only enforce what’s already there.

..right?

you hold him a little tighter.. just in case.

~

it's time.

the bells are ringing and floating through the air over the cliff face your wedding was held, white drapes adoring an arch that looked over the views of your soon to be kingdom.

you thought this day would bring stress, hardships, agony for your future. but instead? you can only feel the sheer and utter excitement and hopefulness for what this day means for you and ryomen, the man you'd come to adore.

just before the big reveal, he'd pulled you aside to admire your beauty in his lonesome. his mouth stayed slack as he took you in for the first time.

"holy... wow." he sighed, grabbing for your hand and spinning you around, gawking over every part of the beautiful white dress adorning your body.

"you look.... oh my good lord." he was utterly in awe. a feeling that multiples ten fold when he spots the necklace around your neck.

"had to make sure i wore my favourite pendant." you smiled.

"you're not real... you're a myth, a goddess created by those who wish to see me pathetically infatuated with someone." he whines, shaking his head as he stares at you up and down.

you thanked him after he'd gotten it out of his system, hugging him softly before being ushered off to start the ceremony.

and now here you stand, under the bow of the arch, hand in hand with your ryomen, feeling everything good in the world pulsating through your veins.

but, as the officiate was about to prompt you to say your vows, you feel a presence appear somewhere above you, high in the sky.

he was here, satoru.

you gulp, and weigh out your options.

sukuna stands there proudly, like he's eagerly ready for his long awaited life with you to finally begin.

you wanted him, his love, his support, his guidance thought this marriage. you might of already had it, so what harm could a little push from a divinity do?

you take a deep breath, smiling sweetly at sukuna, then you do it. you twist your fingers over one another as a signal for gojo to pull the arrow back, and shoot it through your heart. the first person you laid eyes on, sukuna, would be the one you'd fall head over hells for and vice versa.

gojo had been waiting patiently, preparing his bow to be shot, checking everything was in proper order. despite being a menace who was severely disliked among all the gods, he did take his craft seriously.

he spots the signal from his place in the sky, then smiles readily to himself. he had a perfectly clean shot, you were in perfect view, this couldn't go wrong.

well, that's was the plan, at least.

as your pointer crossed your middle, you awaited the sting, standing there with your eyes glued to sukuna who was, in his own head, planning where he would take you for your honey moon.

only, said sting never arrived. the only thing you felt was a hard knock to your chest against the pendant that sat flat against your chest..

was this how it was supposed to go? you weren't feeling any different than before...

the only thing that felt out of the ordinary, was the now very watchful eyes of a deity shooting through you from up above. you nervously grit your teeth, peering up quickly to see what the big idea was, and you lock eyes with him, with satoru, who's iris flash a pretty pink before dilating like he'd seen something utterly enthralling.

and he had, you.

because unlike any other time he'd done this before, gojo satoru, god of love, had messed up...

his aim must've been off, or maybe it was the wind? but the arrow had gone off track completely. instead of piercing your heart, it instead hit the sparkling heart pendant hanging around your neck in such a way that it ricocheted off, diverting its path, and darted straight back towards him. though his heart in place of yours.

you stand still, your eyes blown wide with both rage and an unfathomable sense of... love? oh god... was this adoration? it'd seemed the arrow was working in it's full effect.

sukuna squeezes your hand, softly pulling you from your daze to look back into his eyes, exactly like you were supposed to be doing. he mouths a quick, "you okay?" before you nod and smile falsely.

you gulp, then the officiate gives the go ahead to read out your vows.

ryomen softly recounts his first, you to listen, you really do, but all you can focus on is the blooming feeling of immense need to be closer to the man in the sky, the one no one but you could see right now.

your mind was a hazy field, with gojo standing on one end and sukuna on the other, gojo had a rope tied to your wrist and sukuna a thin chain. both felt equally as wrong in a moment like this, what the hell were you supposed to do?

endure. that's what.

there was nothing you could do to stop this wedding, your father wouldn't allow it and nor would the people who needed a new king and queen.

so you bit the bullet, pushing aside the feelings you'd rather not name to spew out the vows you'd spent nights curating.

~

"what's going on?"

the look on sukuna's face genuinely makes you sick to the stomach. you can tell he's confused, distressed, not knowing why the girl he'd poured so much of himself into was acting like she'd rather be dead than with him.

all you want to do is collapse in his arms and tell him everything, that you still love him, that your feeling haven't changed, only now there was another bucketload of affection waiting to be poured all over gojo, some stupid god you never should of spoken to.

"i'm sorry, ryo. i'm just not feeling too good." you lie trying to break away from the grip he had on your wrist, "i... i need a moment." but sukuna’s fingers tighten when you try to pull away.

“a moment?” he spits. “right now?”

people are still trying to mingle with the two of you. the wind is still dragging white fabric against the grass in beautiful wisps and licks of movement. some important officials are standing by waiting to speak with you, and your father stares from across the way at you expectantly. and you’re staring at your husband like he’s some faraway stranger.

“please,” you whisper.

that does it.

he lets go, just drops your hand as if your skin was made of molten lava. the look on his face is worse than anger, much worse than if he were shouting, it’s purely blank shock. his mouth parts like he’s about to say something funny or clever but he just.. can’t.

you scurry away from all the commotion, running as far into the forest that teetered the cliff side as you could.

you bend over with your hands on your thighs trying to make sense of this atrocious mess, trying your best to breathe without thinking about him. hell, about either of them.

“well,” a voice floats down softly from above. “this is… not ideal.”

the rate on which you snap your head up is impressive.

he’s descending slowly with no theatrics and no obnoxious grin. his sizeable white wings folding in on themselves as his boots touch moss and feathers scatter across the grass as he touches down.

satoru looks wrecked. the pink hue in his once blue eyes seems to darken as he gawks at you.

“what the hell did you do?" you spit out harsher than you’ve ever spoken to a god, harsher than you’ve ever spoken to anyone, for that matter.

“i didn’t mean to,” he explains quickly. “i swear to you. the wind caught it, or maybe the angle was off or—”

“you missed. you fucking missed and shot yourself! what kind of a god misses?!"

“technically.. it ricocheted.”

“off my necklace?”

“yes.”

“then why not aim where the jewelry was not?!"

he cringes with absolutely no excuse ready to throw back at you, “i am so, so sorry.”

“sorry?” you staunch toward him. “i'm married, satoru. i just stood in front of my entire kingdom and vowed myself to a man i—” you groan, your hands flying to massage your aching temples, “—i love.”

oof, that stung. he thought.

you start to feel a horrible and magnetic pull towards gojo, your heart feels so full of adoration yet so empty of any real love that it hurts to breathe. you know he feels it too, the idiots basically twitching wanting to reach out and pull you against his body.

“fix it,” you demand. “undo it, this instant!"

you grow angrier when you watch him gulp.

“i can’t.”

“what.”

“it’s not a simple enchantment,” he pleads with you to understand. “it’s not a ribbon i can just, untie. it can't, i can't—” he stops himself before he spills any godly lore you're not supposed to know about.

“i don't care, break it!" you snap. “you’re cupid, for gods sake. you meddle with love, just.. just meddle again!"

he looks at you like you’ve just asked him to rip out his own heart.

“there are only two ways to sever it,” he says quietly.

you cross your arms as if to say, 'go on.'

“either one of us dies.” he starts.

“that’s not funny.”

“i’m not joking.”

your head starts to throb.

“and the second, you need another love,” he sighs. “one strong enough to overwrite this one. sort of like... a love confession, a true one. all your feelings laid bare for someone else, and they must feel the same. if the heart chooses something greater than magic, the arrow loses it's hold.”

you laugh pitifully, “so i just… fall in love with someone else.?

“no,” he says sharply. “you're already in love with someone.”

you shake your head. “yes, but, what if he doesn't—”

“he loves you,” gojo says, and it’s the most miserable you’ve ever seen the giddy god. “that’s why this hurts the way it does. if he didn’t, you wouldn’t be fighting this so hard, and my love wouldn't feel like it's being shared with someone else.” he exhales and forces his hands to drop.

“i don’t have anyone else,” he says bitterly. “there is no other love waiting to confess to me. i am the one who shoots the arrows, i don’t get shot.”

“clearly you do.”

he almost cracks a smile but decides now's not the time.

“it has to be you,” he says. “you have to confess to him, and he has to return your feelings, that’s the only thing that can get rid of this.”

your mind flashes to sukuna’s stunned face when you pulled away/

god.. that confusion, you feel sick.

“and if i can’t?” you ask solemnly.

“then i will live like this,” he says. “in love with a married woman. watching from the sky, i guess."

the earnest tone in his speech almost pulls you into his arms, you want so horribly bad to run off with this god, but he steps away before your otherwise influenced mind can make that decision.

“go,” he says roughly.

“you’re telling me to leave?”

“yes.”

“even though—”

“yes,” he snaps, wings flaring up once before flattening out. “even though every part of me wants to keep you here with me.”

your heart pounds in your ears.

“i didn’t mean for this, i meant to give you peace. i meant to give you love. not… not this.”

“i do love him,” you sigh.

gojo nods.

“i know.”

“and this—” you gesture weakly between you “—this isn’t real.”

his eyes soften as that familiar smile ghosts his pink lips.

“it’s real,” he says. “it’s just not chosen.”

you step back, then force your feet to move.

“stay away,” you tell him.

he nods once.

then you turn, and you run.

again.

back through the branches, the torn silk from your dress and scattered petals from your own veil, back toward wedding bells and your groom. and when you break the edge of the trees, you find sukuna standing offside watching over the cliff, away from the guests and the ruckus.

you march straight to him and grab his white sleeve.

“come with me.”

when he realises its you, it seems like he'd like to smile on instinct but refrains. "sure."

you drag him away, down the edge of the cliff, away from your family, the guards and your father’s brutal stare. far, far away until it’s just the wind and ocean below as you stand embarrassed in front of ryomen.

he pulls his arm free once you’re alone.

“talk,” he sighs.

you look up at him softly. “i need you to listen,” you start. “and i need you not to interrupt me, okay?”

"okay."

...

"i went to see another man."

“what- who?” his face goes red and he rubs his neck nervously.

“i said don't interru-" you sigh, "never mind. i met with cupid.”

that gets his attention and his brows draw together.

“before the wedding,” you continue quickly. “two weeks ago. i sought out his skill, i asked him to shoot me.”

sukuna goes very still.

“l-look.. i didn’t want to grow old resenting you,” you say. “i didn’t want this to be some stupid duty and politics based marriage. i couldn’t stand spending the rest of my life with a loveless bond and separate beds. i thought if i could force my heart to love you, if i could guarantee it, then everything would be so much easier for the both of us.”

"but?"

"but i was so, so wrong." you admit, "i didn't need that cocky gods help. i didn't need him to come and tie our hearts together. i came to find that over our time spent with one another, i love you without any sort of divine intervention."

he contemplates that statement for a good minute, then adds his two cents with a calculating stare. "look, that's sweet and all... but if you got the guy to shoot us, why did you suddenly disappear and seem like loving me was the last thing on your mind? did he not go through?"

you groan softly and drag both of your hands down your face, still careful as to not ruin your makeup any further. "oh, he went through with it all right... but he messed up. his arrow ricocheted off of the pendant you gave me and re-routed to pierce him instead."

your husbands pretty red eyes widen with shock as he runs his fingers over the stubble of his chin. "that's... convenient. and so fucked."

you let go of a huffed laugh, "tell me about it." your face returns to it's longing look as you continue "look, ryo... even after i was hit, i couldn't shake this other feeling in my head. there was my new fondness for gojo up there, sure. but alongside it was the immense love i felt for you."

you take a breather and see his expression isn't one of anger or judgment, but one of care and understanding. this prompts you to spit out what you've been itching to say.

"i love you, ryomen. so much so that not even cupids dumb, divine powers could make me forget the bond we'd formed in such little time... please, won't you forgive me for trying to force something that was destined to be there regardless..."

he doesn’t let you get the last word out, he grabs your face so you stop talking. “look at me,” he says, and you oblige. “so.. you went to a god because you were scared you wouldn’t love me.”

you gulp. “yes.”

“then you fell in love with me anyway.”

“…yes.”

“then the god fell in love with you.”

you wince. “mhm.”

his mouth twitches despite himself. “that’s insane.”

“i’m aware."

“did you love him?” he asks, and that’s the question that really matters right now.

you shake your head immediately. “no.”

“don’t answer fast just because you think it’s what i want to hear, [name].”

“i don’t love him,” you repeat. “what i feel for him is fake. it’s so intrusive..”

he watches your eyes closely for any kind of deceit.

“you feel it right now?” he asks.

“…yes.”

“and you still came back to me.”

“well, of course i did,” you say offended. “where else would i go?”

he cracks a small grin at that, then he pulls you closer to him by your shoulders.

“say it again,” he asks.

“say?...”

“that you love me.”

you don't even try to hesitate.

“i love you, ryomen.”

his hand moves to your waist firmly, “do you know when i started loving you?” he asks quietly.

you shake your head.

“the first night,” he says. “when you tried to pretend you weren’t interested in my stories but asked a million questions after each time i spoke.”

you go shy and purse your lips in embarrassment.

“n' when you put that stupid flower crown on my head,” he continues. “and acted like it was some obligation instead of just wanting to see me wear it.”

you open your mouth to deny it but he cocks a cocky brow.

you shut it..

“when you told me we could see other people,” he adds, voice lowering. “and then got jealous at the idea before i even finished agreeing.”

you glare weakly. “shut up.”

“it was adorable, you being all territorial.”

you cross your arms. “i was not.”

he steps into your space fully now, uncaring of how close you are teetering to the cliff’s edge.

“you were,” he says simply. “and i adored it.” his thumb hooks under your hot chin, lifting your face.

“i love you,” he returns your notion from earlier. “and it's not because you’re a princess or that i'm being forced to. i love you because you’re clever and stubborn and just... so sweet.”

don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

“and if some lovesick idiot in the sky thinks he can compete with that,” he adds, glancing upward briefly, “he’s welcome to try.”

despite everything, you laugh and it breaks the tension clean in two.

“it’s not a competition,” you giggle.

“mm, it is to me.” he leans his forehead against yours with a cheeky grin. “does he know how you snore?” he asks.

you gasp. “i do not!”

“does he know you hide sweets under your mattress still.”

“you're so annoying.”

“does he know the exact face you make when you’re about to argue.”

you squint at him.

“that one,” he says immediately.

your laugh turns shaky with the tears that sting at the corners of your eyes.

“you’re mine,” he says with a nice sense of certainty. “and i'm yours. at least, i'd hope you'd think so after choosing me over that sky prick.”

“of course i do,” you whisper.

“yeah? say it properly.”

you frown. “i just did, dummy."

“no,” he says. “not ‘i love you.’ tell me you choose me.”

you inhale, and that annoying pull towards the sky tugs at your heart again, faint and ever so insistent, but you ignore it.

“i choose you,” you say.

his mouth somehow pulls into an even larger smile, “good.”

then he kisses you tenderly, pouring every ounce of need and want and pure love into your being. you kiss him back with the same passion, and like a rubber band pulled too tight, the string that was connecting you to someone in the sky was broken. the second tether that didn’t belong in your mind loosens and dissolves like mist in bright sunlight.

“…it’s gone,” you pull away breathless.

“what is?”

“the feelings i had for... y'know."

the air of complete and utter smugness that brushes his face is laughable. “so, i beat a god,” he says. “embarrassing for him.”

you scoff. “that’s what you took from that?”

“what else am i meant to take from it. you chose me, sky boy lost. sounds pretty cut and dry to me.”

you smack his broad chest but he barely flinches.

“i was going through it, asshole,” you mutter. “i thought i ruined everything.”

“you kinda did,” he says sternly.

your heart drops, then he grins. “ruined his chances.”

urgh, you hate him.

“you’re insufferable,” you mumble.

“and yet,”

he cups your face with the big pads of his thumbs brushing under your eyes where your makeup is starting to smudge, and he kisses you again.

“you look wrecked.” he says after pulling off.

“i chased a cherub through a forest in heels.”

“mm, that tracks.”

he pulls the loose pieces of veil off your shoulder and flicks a petal out of your hair.

“you’re still so unfairly pretty,” he adds casually. “even when you look tussled.”

“very romantic.”

“i try.”

he grabs your necklace, rolling the chain between his fingers, "crazy how this little thing helped us out in the end. i'd much rather be naturally attracted to you."

"mhm, best gift i've ever gotten. and i've gotten a lot of gifts."

you both laugh sweetly and intertwine your hands.

"well, cupid aside, we're married now." your husband wriggles his eye brows. "and i, for one, can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

"yeah? well, so am i. very excited, in fact." you reply just as just.

and you do,

you spend the rest of your days rejecting the heavy crowns your father likes to polish and parade around. they sit in bejeweled glass cases somewhere in the palace collecting dust. you both make and wear the flower ones in place, just like you'd promised. the lopsided ones you weave badly and shove onto his head while he complains about looking ridiculous, but still, he never takes them off until the petals start falling apart.

you rule side by side, not from separate thrones but from the same side of the long table, knees knocking playfully under the polished wood while advisors pretend not to notice.

you both steal sweets from the kitchen even though you don’t have to hide it anymore. you still sneak them under the mattress out of old habit, and he still steals them every time and eats one just to see that annoyed look on your little face.

at night there are no weird separate chambers, god no. sukuna would never stand for that. you're curled into him each and every time as he holds you tenderly.

on anniversaries he pretends to forget, just to see you get all crazy and dramatic about it. then, not even a minute later, he hands you some over the top gift and showers you in affection.

"i could never forget the day i married the girl of my dizziest day dreams."

"you're so corny."

"give me that back."

sometimes you catch yourself thinking about divine love arrows and how close everything came to crashing down in the wrong direction. but he always notices when you get that kind of sad.

“don’t think about that shit, sweetheart,” he says, nudging your chin up.

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

you sigh and rest your forehead against his shoulder. “i’m just glad i could break it.”

“hm, well. it was always gonna be me,” he smirks.

years pass, and flower crowns wilt and get remade. the forest becomes your special place, the towering cliff where you'd spent the most important hours of your life. people tell stories about the courageous king who could've fought a god, and the queen who outran one.

one evening, when you're both settled, you sit with him on that same cliff. the ocean roars and bellows below as the moon shines in full, your crown made of small white blooms.

“still choosing me?” he asks, not looking at you, but the sky.

“every day,” you answer.

he smiles.

“good, because m' not giving you back.”

A/N: this was supposed to be for v'day but we both just couldn't get our parts out LMAO anywaysss be sure to check out rie's part when her's comes out! collab m.list

“Uh... thanks. I think?” 

You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred. 

“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly. 

“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?” 

Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love. 

So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again. 

| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA |   “Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?” 

Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t) 

Swipe. 

| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA |   “Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.” 

Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.) 

Swipe. 

| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA |   “What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.” 

You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…) 

Swipe. 

| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA |   “Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?” 

You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.) 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.  

So? You expand your distance radius. 

Like...  

Way out.  

Just to see what would happen. 

| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan |   “Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.” 

It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.  

He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s— 

…gorgeous.  

And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen. 

~  ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo!  ♡ ︎  ~  ...typing  Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app.  Satoru: So… hi! Satoru: Wanna test fate?  You: lol 😂 You: well then... You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝 Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉

He was... normal. 

Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy.  But somehow? It worked. He made you smile. 

...typing  Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question...   Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society?  You: 😨😨 You: excuse you!!   You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒 Satoru: Phew 😩 Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before 

And just like that, you were hooked. 

You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything. 

Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers. 

One day he asked: 

...typing  Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl? 

You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone. 

...typing  You: hmmm..... You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type?  Satoru: 👀 Satoru: Well shit... Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both...  You: hehehe 😇 You: what do YOU think i am?  Satoru: Oh, hell no... Satoru: I’m not falling for that Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.  You: pshhh...  You: that response answers for me 😛  You: but hmm... i guess i’m both? You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person.  Satoru: Okay cool Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way. You: ruin you?? You: never!! You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️  Satoru: ❤️  Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question... Satoru: Snacks Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart. You: hmm...  Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨 You: imma salty kinda girl Satoru: ...  You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘 Satoru: Siiiiiigh...  Satoru: Fine. I respect it Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship

Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe. 

It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life. 

Until you started calling each other. 

What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs. 

He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind. 

And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it. 

“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?” 

“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?” 

His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.

“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.” 

“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”

A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.

“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”

His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.

“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”

You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.

“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”

Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.

“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”

It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.

“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.

You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.

“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”

Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.

“…I met someone.”

That gives her pause.

“Oh?”

Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.

Satoru.

“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”

But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.

“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.

“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”

At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.

“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”

“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.

Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”

“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”

“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”

Your heart drops.

God. That’d be just your luck.

“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”

“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”

You scoff, brows furrowing.

“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”

And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.

That… bitch.

Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.

You must.

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.

You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.

“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”

Little does he know…

It’s you you’re sending.

(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)

Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.

“Uh…. sumimasen?”

It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)

As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.

But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.

Because what the hell.

The place is huge.

It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.

Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.

God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?

Fuck.

You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?

When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—

Click!

The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—

A woman.

“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”

She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.

Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.

Double fuck…

Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?

It feels like a kick to the chest.

What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!

 “ちょっと、聞こえてる？”

She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.

“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.

God. You’re such an idiot.

“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”

Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.

“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”

As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.

“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”

“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”

Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.

Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.

They’re all staring at you with stone faces.

One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.

Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”

“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”

“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”

The words hits harder than it should.

Girlfriend? Secret?

God, what are you to him?

And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?

You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”

You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.

“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”

“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”

There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.

“Damn. Lucky bastard.”

You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.

"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"

Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”

“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”

You blink again.

Is he… hitting on you?

“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.

And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”

“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”

You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.

“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”

...fangirl?

The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.

What made you think you were any different?

You shouldn’t have come.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”

And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.

“W-What… what are you doing here?!”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.

“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"

“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”

At the mention of his name, you freeze.

Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.

But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.

No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.

Nothing like his profile pictures.

“Satoru?” you breathe.

His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.

“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”

“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”

“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.

“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”

The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.

He lied.

And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.

Love is dead.

“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”

And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.

“Wait—shit. Wait!”

Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.

He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.

And now he’s watching you walk away.

“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”

“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”

He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.

“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”

A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”

He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.

But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.

“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”

He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.

Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.

“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”

“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.

“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"

“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”

He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.

You don’t speak the language.

You don’t know the city.

You don’t have a car.

Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.

“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”

Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.

It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.

You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.

By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.

Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.

You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.

The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.

Beautiful.

Almost like…

The photos on Satoru’s profile?

Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??

You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.

“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.

You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.

Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?

“Hey—hey! There you are!”

Oh, yeah. It can.

Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.

“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.

“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”

He sighs, exasperated.

“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”

“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”

You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”

The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.

“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”

“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.

“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”

“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”

“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”

Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.

Because you’re... crying.

Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.

“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.

His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.

“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.

He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.

“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”

You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.

“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because that’s the cruel part.

He didn’t lie about everything.

He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.

And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.

“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”

Satoru stiffens.

“Uh… Suguru?”

“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”

You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt. 

“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”

You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.

“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”

His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.

“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”

Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”

He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”

“That’s insane,” you mutter.

“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”

You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”

He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.

“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”

Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.

“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”

But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.

“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.

He guides you carefully toward the car. The passenger door creaks open. He ducks down to guide you in, one hand braced above your head so you don’t hit it on the frame. His other hand lingers at your lower back. You glance up at him in the doorway.

“Do you… really think Suguru would like me?”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Then a tight smile.

“I think… he’d be lucky if he did.”

You frown, unsure how to read that. But you don’t press.

He closes the door behind you, gently. And as he rounds the car to take his seat, you rest your head against the window — watching snow dust the windshield like ash.

It’s going to be a long Christmas.

The drive home was quiet. When Satoru glanced through the rearview mirror, he realized you were out cold before he even hit the second red light. Your head was tilted against the window, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.

You looked impossibly beautiful.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the snow picked up again, soft and powdery in the glow of the porch light. Satoru kills the engine and glances at you one more time.

“Hey… uh. We’re here?”

But you don’t wake. And honestly, he can’t find it in his heart to wake you himself. So instead, he sighs, “C’mon, sleeping beauty…” climbing out and circling the car. “Right… well. Up and at ‘em.”

He lifts you gently, bridal style. And your head lolls against his shoulder, warm breath ghosting across his collar. When he adjusts his grip, you snuggle closer, burrowing into the crook of his neck. And he tries to act like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting.

As he approaches the estate’s entrance, the door slides open before he can knock. Yuji stands there with a bag of chips in one hand and a soda in the other.

“Woah. Dude. She okay?”

“What?! Of course!” Satoru huffs. “She’s fine. Just—tired. Long flight. Jet lag hit her hard, y’know?”

Yuji nods solemnly. “RIP.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Move. Gotta put her to bed.”

Yuji moves. Nobody presses further. Satoru doesn’t stop in the hallway, just takes the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his room, nudging the door open with his foot while he eases you inside.

He lowers you onto the bed slowly, like you might break. Your coat bunches beneath you, and he hesitates — then gently shrugs it off your shoulders, exposing some of your bare skin. You murmur something incoherent, head rolling to the side.

“Shhh… time to get some rest, sweetheart…” he breathes. “Lay back for me, yeah?”

As you lay back, he slips your boots off next, one at a time, fingers brushing your ankles. And god, your feet are freezing.

But as he’s reaching for the blanket—

“Mmmph.”

Your hand fumbles blindly and finds his shirt, tugging him down with you. He stumbles forward slightly, one knee landing on the edge of the bed, catching himself on his palms as you tug him down. Your arms wrap loosely around his waist, burying your face into his chest.

“W-Woah—hey,” he breathes, voice cracking a little. “You’re—uh. Kinda clinging there, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just… sigh. Sleepy and content. He lies beside you, unsure where to put his hands, heart racing. You’re cold. He can feel the way you press into him, like he’s the warmest thing in the world. Your fingers bunch his shirt. Your nose nuzzles the fabric.

“Mm… s’toru…”

His heart flutters, and he knows you’ll probably hate him again in the morning, but he doesn’t move.

Because he likes the way you cling to him. Because he’s selfish. Because the girl he lied to for weeks is now curled up in his bed, face pressed to his ribs, saying his name like she’s dreamt it a hundred times.

So, he sleeps beside you that night. Pretending, just for now, that none of it was a lie.

‘I keep thinking… if this is what you’re like over the phone, what the hell am I gonna do if I ever see you in person?’

You’re dreaming again.

Of his voice — that voice. Warm and easy. The one that used to call you at midnight, laughing through the line like it was nothing, like you weren’t slowly losing your mind for a stranger you’d never met.

‘Cause… I really love talking to you. Might just get addicted to you, sweetheart.’

You sigh, stirring slightly against the warmth pressed to you. It’s a heavy, encompassing warmth – like you’ve been swaddled in sunlight and something sweet. There’s an arm draped languidly around your waist, and a thumb twitching against your lower back.

Dreaming.

“Mmph…”

Your thighs are warm, tangled, clinging to something… hard. You wiggle your hips as the rhythm of breathing ebbs and flows beneath you. And that movement makes a low, sleepy sound rumble against your chest.

“Fffuck…”

The groan isn’t innocent, and your brow furrows with a whimper as something firm twitches between your legs. Beginning to grow. A hand flexes at your back, and you instinctively press your thighs tighter, making him gasp.

“Unngh… b-baby…”

As your eyes flutter open, fluttering against his skin, you’re greeted with the slope of his throat, pale in the gray morning light. And the throbbing heat between your legs makes it undeniable now.

This isn’t a dream. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your blanket. And your thighs are straddling Satoru’s hips with his morning wood right there and holy shit—

“S-Satoru?!”

You squeak. And his brow twitches, snowy lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy inhale. When his hazy gaze focuses, you’re met with that blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than anything should be this early in the goddamn morning.

But then, awareness sinks in, and he stutters. “H-Huh…?” gaze flicking down to the very compromising position you’re both in.

“Shit!” his voice cracks as you shove at his chest, face molten.

“Oh my god—why the hell are we sleeping together?!” you shriek, and he’s desperately trying to explain. “I—You—” he wheezes as you push his again. “Ow, okay, damn, don’t commit a felony! You literally pulled me into the bed when you were drunk. And then you passed out on top of me! I’m the victim here!”

Your hands are still on his chest, mid-push. But you stop. Breath catching. Eyes locking.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You both look down at his dick.

“…so,” he mutters, throat bobbing as his eyes flick back up to your face—very carefully avoiding your chest, failing miserably. “You, uh… gonna move?”

“R-Right!” your cheeks erupt in flames as you scramble off him like he’s on fire, nearly tripping over the bed. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to…”

“No, it’s uh… fine. Totally fine.” He mumbles with an awkward laugh. “I mean… not that I’m complaining… but damn. If this is how you serve breakfast in America? I might need to move and—”

“Don’t.” You snap, making him freeze. “Don’t say that…”

Your arms are crossed as you stand, pressing your lips together tightly. His expression instantly drops, the humor fading. And god. You want to be mad at him. You should be mad.

But mostly?

Last night comes flashing back – your drunk, pathetic sob story. And really, you just feel… humiliated.

“You don’t get to make jokes right now,” your tone trembles as you try to hold it tight. “Not after last night. Not after I flew across the world for someone who doesn’t exist. For some who—” you trail off, failing to find words that don’t sound even more pathetic. And scoff. “God… I’m such an idiot…”

There’s a long pause. Satoru’s quiet, but then you hear him sigh.

“…you’re not. You’re not an idiot.”

Your eyes flick over as you watch him shift upright, pushing a hand through his messy hair. His expression softens, vibrant eyes dimming with a tenderness. And for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for some smartass line to soften to blow.

“I told you… I shouldn’t have lied. Okay? I know that…” he scratches the back of his head, knowing there’s no excuse he can give you that’ll make him sound any less pathetic. He exhales, pushing on. “Look… just stay until Christmas. Please? I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. Even… hook you up with Suguru, like I said.”

He hesitates as he says it. But that’s what you want… right? After all, you expected him. You expected Suguru.

You blink, mouth parting as your conversation at the bar comes crashing back towards your foggy memory. You’d said it to spite him. You were drunk and stupid and humiliated, and you just wanted to wound him.

Because you liked him.

You really, really wanted it to be real.

Your mouth parts. You’re about to answer when your phone buzzes.

Mei: How’s Japan, darling? Is he real? I expect those lines~

You stare at the screen. Something twists in your chest — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. And with a bitter smile, you tuck the phone away.

“Right…” you mutter, rubbing your arm nervously. “Uh… sure. I guess I’ll stay.”

a/n. hello my darlings. merry christmas, i hope you all are enjoying your holiday! i will have pt 2 out before the end of december, lmk if you wanna be tagged. this fic kinda gives me supermodel! gojo vibes? at least with the message it's exploring. hehe. anyways, love you all. thanks for reading 💖 part 2 >>>

“Uh... thanks. I think?” 

You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred. 

“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly. 

“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?” 

Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love. 

So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again. 

| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA |   “Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?” 

Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t) 

Swipe. 

| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA |   “Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.” 

Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.) 

Swipe. 

| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA |   “What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.” 

You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…) 

Swipe. 

| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA |   “Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?” 

You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.) 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.  

So? You expand your distance radius. 

Like...  

Way out.  

Just to see what would happen. 

| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan |   “Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.” 

It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.  

He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s— 

…gorgeous.  

And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen. 

~  ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo!  ♡ ︎  ~  ...typing  Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app.  Satoru: So… hi! Satoru: Wanna test fate?  You: lol 😂 You: well then... You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝 Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉

He was... normal. 

Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy.  But somehow? It worked. He made you smile. 

...typing  Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question...   Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society?  You: 😨😨 You: excuse you!!   You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒 Satoru: Phew 😩 Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before 

And just like that, you were hooked. 

You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything. 

Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers. 

One day he asked: 

...typing  Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl? 

You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone. 

...typing  You: hmmm..... You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type?  Satoru: 👀 Satoru: Well shit... Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both...  You: hehehe 😇 You: what do YOU think i am?  Satoru: Oh, hell no... Satoru: I’m not falling for that Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.  You: pshhh...  You: that response answers for me 😛  You: but hmm... i guess i’m both? You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person.  Satoru: Okay cool Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way. You: ruin you?? You: never!! You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️  Satoru: ❤️  Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question... Satoru: Snacks Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart. You: hmm...  Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨 You: imma salty kinda girl Satoru: ...  You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘 Satoru: Siiiiiigh...  Satoru: Fine. I respect it Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship

Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe. 

It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life. 

Until you started calling each other. 

What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs. 

He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind. 

And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it. 

“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?” 

“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?” 

His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.

“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.” 

“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”

A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.

“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”

His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.

“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”

You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.

“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”

Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.

“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”

It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.

“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.

You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.

“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”

Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.

“…I met someone.”

That gives her pause.

“Oh?”

Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.

Satoru.

“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”

But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.

“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.

“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”

At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.

“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”

“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.

Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”

“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”

“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”

Your heart drops.

God. That’d be just your luck.

“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”

“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”

You scoff, brows furrowing.

“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”

And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.

That… bitch.

Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.

You must.

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.

You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.

“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”

Little does he know…

It’s you you’re sending.

(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)

Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.

“Uh…. sumimasen?”

It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)

As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.

But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.

Because what the hell.

The place is huge.

It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.

Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.

God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?

Fuck.

You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?

When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—

Click!

The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—

A woman.

“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”

She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.

Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.

Double fuck…

Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?

It feels like a kick to the chest.

What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!

 “ちょっと、聞こえてる？”

She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.

“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.

God. You’re such an idiot.

“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”

Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.

“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”

As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.

“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”

“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”

Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.

Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.

They’re all staring at you with stone faces.

One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.

Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”

“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”

“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”

The words hits harder than it should.

Girlfriend? Secret?

God, what are you to him?

And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?

You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”

You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.

“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”

“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”

There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.

“Damn. Lucky bastard.”

You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.

"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"

Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”

“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”

You blink again.

Is he… hitting on you?

“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.

And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”

“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”

You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.

“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”

...fangirl?

The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.

What made you think you were any different?

You shouldn’t have come.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”

And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.

“W-What… what are you doing here?!”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.

“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"

“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”

At the mention of his name, you freeze.

Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.

But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.

No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.

Nothing like his profile pictures.

“Satoru?” you breathe.

His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.

“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”

“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”

“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.

“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”

The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.

He lied.

And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.

Love is dead.

“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”

And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.

“Wait—shit. Wait!”

Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.

He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.

And now he’s watching you walk away.

“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”

“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”

He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.

“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”

A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”

He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.

But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.

“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”

He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.

Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.

“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”

“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.

“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"

“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”

He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.

You don’t speak the language.

You don’t know the city.

You don’t have a car.

Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.

“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”

Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.

It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.

You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.

By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.

Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.

You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.

The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.

Beautiful.

Almost like…

The photos on Satoru’s profile?

Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??

You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.

“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.

You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.

Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?

“Hey—hey! There you are!”

Oh, yeah. It can.

Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.

“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.

“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”

He sighs, exasperated.

“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”

“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”

You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”

The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.

“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”

“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.

“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”

“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”

“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”

Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.

Because you’re... crying.

Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.

“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.

His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.

“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.

He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.

“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”

You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.

“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because that’s the cruel part.

He didn’t lie about everything.

He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.

And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.

“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”

Satoru stiffens.

“Uh… Suguru?”

“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”

You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt. 

“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”

You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.

“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”

His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.

“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”

Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”

He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”

“That’s insane,” you mutter.

“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”

You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”

He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.

“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”

Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.

“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”

But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.

“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.

He guides you carefully toward the car. The passenger door creaks open. He ducks down to guide you in, one hand braced above your head so you don’t hit it on the frame. His other hand lingers at your lower back. You glance up at him in the doorway.

“Do you… really think Suguru would like me?”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Then a tight smile.

“I think… he’d be lucky if he did.”

You frown, unsure how to read that. But you don’t press.

He closes the door behind you, gently. And as he rounds the car to take his seat, you rest your head against the window — watching snow dust the windshield like ash.

It’s going to be a long Christmas.

The drive home was quiet. When Satoru glanced through the rearview mirror, he realized you were out cold before he even hit the second red light. Your head was tilted against the window, lips slightly parted, breathing deep and even.

You looked impossibly beautiful.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the snow picked up again, soft and powdery in the glow of the porch light. Satoru kills the engine and glances at you one more time.

“Hey… uh. We’re here?”

But you don’t wake. And honestly, he can’t find it in his heart to wake you himself. So instead, he sighs, “C’mon, sleeping beauty…” climbing out and circling the car. “Right… well. Up and at ‘em.”

He lifts you gently, bridal style. And your head lolls against his shoulder, warm breath ghosting across his collar. When he adjusts his grip, you snuggle closer, burrowing into the crook of his neck. And he tries to act like his brain wasn’t short-circuiting.

As he approaches the estate’s entrance, the door slides open before he can knock. Yuji stands there with a bag of chips in one hand and a soda in the other.

“Woah. Dude. She okay?”

“What?! Of course!” Satoru huffs. “She’s fine. Just—tired. Long flight. Jet lag hit her hard, y’know?”

Yuji nods solemnly. “RIP.”

Satoru rolls his eyes. “Move. Gotta put her to bed.”

Yuji moves. Nobody presses further. Satoru doesn’t stop in the hallway, just takes the stairs two at a time, heading straight for his room, nudging the door open with his foot while he eases you inside.

He lowers you onto the bed slowly, like you might break. Your coat bunches beneath you, and he hesitates — then gently shrugs it off your shoulders, exposing some of your bare skin. You murmur something incoherent, head rolling to the side.

“Shhh… time to get some rest, sweetheart…” he breathes. “Lay back for me, yeah?”

As you lay back, he slips your boots off next, one at a time, fingers brushing your ankles. And god, your feet are freezing.

But as he’s reaching for the blanket—

“Mmmph.”

Your hand fumbles blindly and finds his shirt, tugging him down with you. He stumbles forward slightly, one knee landing on the edge of the bed, catching himself on his palms as you tug him down. Your arms wrap loosely around his waist, burying your face into his chest.

“W-Woah—hey,” he breathes, voice cracking a little. “You’re—uh. Kinda clinging there, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just… sigh. Sleepy and content. He lies beside you, unsure where to put his hands, heart racing. You’re cold. He can feel the way you press into him, like he’s the warmest thing in the world. Your fingers bunch his shirt. Your nose nuzzles the fabric.

“Mm… s’toru…”

His heart flutters, and he knows you’ll probably hate him again in the morning, but he doesn’t move.

Because he likes the way you cling to him. Because he’s selfish. Because the girl he lied to for weeks is now curled up in his bed, face pressed to his ribs, saying his name like she’s dreamt it a hundred times.

So, he sleeps beside you that night. Pretending, just for now, that none of it was a lie.

‘I keep thinking… if this is what you’re like over the phone, what the hell am I gonna do if I ever see you in person?’

You’re dreaming again.

Of his voice — that voice. Warm and easy. The one that used to call you at midnight, laughing through the line like it was nothing, like you weren’t slowly losing your mind for a stranger you’d never met.

‘Cause… I really love talking to you. Might just get addicted to you, sweetheart.’

You sigh, stirring slightly against the warmth pressed to you. It’s a heavy, encompassing warmth – like you’ve been swaddled in sunlight and something sweet. There’s an arm draped languidly around your waist, and a thumb twitching against your lower back.

Dreaming.

“Mmph…”

Your thighs are warm, tangled, clinging to something… hard. You wiggle your hips as the rhythm of breathing ebbs and flows beneath you. And that movement makes a low, sleepy sound rumble against your chest.

“Fffuck…”

The groan isn’t innocent, and your brow furrows with a whimper as something firm twitches between your legs. Beginning to grow. A hand flexes at your back, and you instinctively press your thighs tighter, making him gasp.

“Unngh… b-baby…”

As your eyes flutter open, fluttering against his skin, you’re greeted with the slope of his throat, pale in the gray morning light. And the throbbing heat between your legs makes it undeniable now.

This isn’t a dream. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your blanket. And your thighs are straddling Satoru’s hips with his morning wood right there and holy shit—

“S-Satoru?!”

You squeak. And his brow twitches, snowy lashes fluttering, lips parting on a sleepy inhale. When his hazy gaze focuses, you’re met with that blue. Bluer than the sky, bluer than anything should be this early in the goddamn morning.

But then, awareness sinks in, and he stutters. “H-Huh…?” gaze flicking down to the very compromising position you’re both in.

“Shit!” his voice cracks as you shove at his chest, face molten.

“Oh my god—why the hell are we sleeping together?!” you shriek, and he’s desperately trying to explain. “I—You—” he wheezes as you push his again. “Ow, okay, damn, don’t commit a felony! You literally pulled me into the bed when you were drunk. And then you passed out on top of me! I’m the victim here!”

Your hands are still on his chest, mid-push. But you stop. Breath catching. Eyes locking.

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You both look down at his dick.

“…so,” he mutters, throat bobbing as his eyes flick back up to your face—very carefully avoiding your chest, failing miserably. “You, uh… gonna move?”

“R-Right!” your cheeks erupt in flames as you scramble off him like he’s on fire, nearly tripping over the bed. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t mean to…”

“No, it’s uh… fine. Totally fine.” He mumbles with an awkward laugh. “I mean… not that I’m complaining… but damn. If this is how you serve breakfast in America? I might need to move and—”

“Don’t.” You snap, making him freeze. “Don’t say that…”

Your arms are crossed as you stand, pressing your lips together tightly. His expression instantly drops, the humor fading. And god. You want to be mad at him. You should be mad.

But mostly?

Last night comes flashing back – your drunk, pathetic sob story. And really, you just feel… humiliated.

“You don’t get to make jokes right now,” your tone trembles as you try to hold it tight. “Not after last night. Not after I flew across the world for someone who doesn’t exist. For some who—” you trail off, failing to find words that don’t sound even more pathetic. And scoff. “God… I’m such an idiot…”

There’s a long pause. Satoru’s quiet, but then you hear him sigh.

“…you’re not. You’re not an idiot.”

Your eyes flick over as you watch him shift upright, pushing a hand through his messy hair. His expression softens, vibrant eyes dimming with a tenderness. And for once, it doesn’t feel like he’s reaching for some smartass line to soften to blow.

“I told you… I shouldn’t have lied. Okay? I know that…” he scratches the back of his head, knowing there’s no excuse he can give you that’ll make him sound any less pathetic. He exhales, pushing on. “Look… just stay until Christmas. Please? I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you. Even… hook you up with Suguru, like I said.”

He hesitates as he says it. But that’s what you want… right? After all, you expected him. You expected Suguru.

You blink, mouth parting as your conversation at the bar comes crashing back towards your foggy memory. You’d said it to spite him. You were drunk and stupid and humiliated, and you just wanted to wound him.

Because you liked him.

You really, really wanted it to be real.

Your mouth parts. You’re about to answer when your phone buzzes.

Mei: How’s Japan, darling? Is he real? I expect those lines~

You stare at the screen. Something twists in your chest — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. And with a bitter smile, you tuck the phone away.

“Right…” you mutter, rubbing your arm nervously. “Uh… sure. I guess I’ll stay.”

a/n. hello my darlings. merry christmas, i hope you all are enjoying your holiday! i will have pt 2 out before the end of december, lmk if you wanna be tagged. this fic kinda gives me supermodel! gojo vibes? at least with the message it's exploring. hehe. anyways, love you all. thanks for reading 💖 part 2 >>>